


Defenestration

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Season/Series 05, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: {informal} (n.) the action of dismissing someone from a position of power or authority.





	Defenestration

**Author's Note:**

> I tend to write most fics with Joan as the dominant aggressor and while she remains so in this, I decided to give her some pleasure for a change. ;)

> {informal} (n.) the action of dismissing someone from a position of power or authority.

A new guard, freshly shaven, opens the door, granting the inmate entrance to the Governor's office.

In walks the Devil, mesmerized by the evolution of this once sacred place. The paintings on the walls replace her medals of honor: her certificates, her diplomas, her revolution both won and lost and now won again, albeit in teal.

From her own reign as Governor, Joan Ferguson doesn't recognize him; he seems young in the eyes. This job will eat away at him. Before it does, she'll find out his weakness and use it to her advantage.

Officer Stephen Cooley shuts the door behind Wentworth's newest Top Dog.

She doesn't bother watching him leave.

He's not an imposing threat.

"Hello, Vera. We ought to stop meeting in this way," Ferguson quips, fully aware that Governor Bennett will not stop coming back to her.

For good measure, Ferguson bolts the lock. The blinds are already drawn. It seems that all of the pawns have been laid out on the board, including the Queen behind the desk – a white block where she sits, embittered and worn.

Vera Bennett disregards her monumental duty for the beast of a burden standing in the room.

"You came into _my_ office," Vera points out, trying to gain the upper hand on the situation.

She doesn't slip in the vinegar anymore.

"Hm."

The sound of indifference seems to suffice as a response. Ferguson steps forward. Idly, Joan strokes the name plate that's tilted at an angle on Vera's desk. _Her_ desk.

She straightens it.

One day, her name and title will read on that plate, but not today.

Today requires something else.

Akin to a predator, she surveys her prey. She walks around the desk and chair, now standing behind her _pathetic_ , little underling. Joan hovers over her. Leans down so that Vera is forced to look up.

From the strain, a vein bulges in Vera's neck.

The right Hand of God reaches down, index finger extended, but Vera doesn't reciprocate the gesture. The touch that now settles on her cheek traces the bow of her lips.

Despite the crashing waves of hurt, Vera nearly sighs from the touch.

It's the softest of touches, Joan deduces, that harbors the most destruction.

It's something that Jake Stewart can never reciprocate.

A ghost of a smirk twists onto Joan's lips.

"You want to fuck me. To _be_ me. Is that all, Vera?"

A challenge presents itself.

“No,” she denies the claim. “I will **never** be you, Joan.”

Maybe it's better off that way.

The lines blur just as they divide. For them, the separation between guard and inmate simply doesn't exist. At the jab, Ferguson says nothing. Calculates with clean precision through a tender touch that could cut a throat in the blink of an eye.

Tenderly, her scarred fingers trace the slope of Vera's jaw.

Governor Bennett forgets to breathe.

Only the ticking of the clock on the wall can be heard.

"On your knees where you belong. Now," she commands.

The authoritarian lilt never slips.

"I beg your pardon?" Vera fires back, incredulous.

Vera's hands clutch at the arms of her chair, nails digging into leather.

"Do not make me repeat myself, _Vera_. Come now, you can have your cake and eat it too. My gift to you."

It's like possession, Vera decides, when she complies. The _**little mouse**_ detaches herself from the chair. The leather of the seat screeches in a protest. Warily, she eyes her opponent. Her tormentor. Her silent suffocator. In front of the desk, Vera kneels, her stormy eyes searching the unreadable expression that Joan dons.

Her right hand palms the nape of Vera's neck, but she's not pledging sanctity.

Vera looks up, Joan looks down.

Funny how they're back to the start.

Joan Ferguson takes her rightful place on the throne.

Vera's never been of the religious sort. Church on Sundays had been a mandatory experience in her younger years, but it tapered off after she finished her schooling. She's fallen before an altar all the same.

Quietly, she slips past the barrier of the teal sweats with now assertive fingers. Of the practical, black underwear that she wants to laugh at, but _can't_.

Vera licks and kisses her thighs, ivory columns that allow this proud veneration to remain standing.

In compliance, Joan parts her legs further. Her feet keep her grounded, heels tethered to the bleak title.

A trail of fiery kisses lead her to Joan's center.

Her core.

But it's not a black hole, a mess of a vortex; it's a pair of soft, velvety lips and a nest of dark curls.

Vera uses a knuckle to tease her entrance. Slowly, she pushes a finger inside. She adds another finger. Waits a moment before spreading them apart.

The effect is damn near intoxicating.

This perpetual ache leads to a raw, rabid hunger.

The deed itself doesn't arouse her. On the contrary, having her former protégé writhe underneath of her presents its merits.

"You want this," Joan taunts relentlessly, bucking her hips in tandem with Vera's curled fingers

Joan controls her reactions.

She's wet. She suspects – no, _knows_ – that Vera is too, given her eagerness to please.

She imagines the wetness coating Vera's panties, the heat radiating through her trousers.

Plain, white briefs, she supposes.

Shockingly vanilla.

With a glare, she thrusts her fingers in a quiet retaliation. Vera replaces her hands with her lips, her tongue that slithers inside. She has a grab at her ass. Joan Ferguson's ass, of all things. It's tight. Firm. Pliant beneath her touch. Sweat beads along Vera's temples. A few strands of hair loosen from her bun. Her collar sits askew, her tie threatening to choke her.

Nestled between the apex of Joan's thighs, her jaw's left sore and aching. Ferguson grits her teeth. Clenches her jaw. Nostrils flared, she grips the base of Vera's skull. Pushes her closer. Forces her to be near her.

She keeps going.

She keeps fucking Joan Ferguson.

And Joan rides her face so hard that she's seeing blue -- seeing red -- forgetting what it means to _breathe_.

Her tongue flattens against her clit, humming in order to send a spike of vibrations throughout her body.

She expects Joan to taste like perdition, damnation, complete and utter ruin. What surprises Vera most, though, is the taste. It's good. It's addictive.

From the way her head bobs with a newly found urgency, her neck'll be sore in a few hours. In a day.

Joan's throbbing center signifies the beginning of the end.

She is the animal that these women need her to be – the wolf at the door, the lion guarding the den, Cerberus at the iron gates.

Her mouth parts, her nails sinking into Vera's scalp.

Vera moans and Joan echoes the sound, guttural and near primitive.

"That's it," Joan croons.

It comes out as a growl, a hiss, something so feral that it ignites a fire in Vera's stomach.

The act accompanies the art of coming undone.

When she comes, she grunts. Keeps Vera's face close to her cunt.

Her climax washes over her.

Come, commala, come.

Vera drinks it in like honey. Like wine.

She swallows and flicks her tongue over her now sensitive clit one last time.

They disband. Joan smirks upon seeing the ruin twisting her mouse's face. However, she doesn't expect to see the glimmer of what once was: that dazed reverence that fades alongside the look of love lost.

Vera wipes the back of her hand across her swollen lips.

"Get out," she demands.

"Wouldn't you rather I get you off?" She taunts.

It's too fucking cruel.

This isn't the tongue of the Governor Vera used to know.

She's someone else.

They both are.

"Please, Joan. _Leave_."

Vera sounds softer, a throwback to the young girl with green behind the ears, back when she had been so naïve. So willing. So foolish.

The teal returns. She pulls up the waistband of her sweats. Joan straightens her ponytail. Standing tall, she leaves behind a ruined woman.

Defenestration in her wake.

 

 


End file.
